


Together (Thick and Thin)

by Army C (arh581958)



Series: Comfort [8]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian, Bipolar!Ian, Bottom!Mickey, Co-Dependency, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, EMT!Ian, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Future, Future Fic, Gallavich, Homophobic Language, I just really want Ian sucking Mickey's nipples, Lactation, Lactation Kink, M/M, MICKEY'S NIPPLES, Male Homosexuality, Male Lactation, Mechanic!Mickey, Nipple Play, Nipple kink, Romantic Fluff, TW: read end notes, Top!Ian, breast feeding, lactating!Mickey, nipple sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 23:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11262840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Army%20C
Summary: Mickey shrugs off his shirt. It falls to the floor with a quiet thump. A bandage covers his chest. It’s loosely wrapped. It’s for precaution. Some days, he leaks. Some days, he doesn’t. He just doesn’t want to succumb to admitting that his body’s irreversibly changed for Ian.





	Together (Thick and Thin)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the comfort series~ If you're new to it, it's fine whether or not you read the previous ones. They're all pretty stand-alone but held in the same universe. It does, however, make more sense when you do. I'd like to think that there's an evolution in the characters. 
> 
> Warnings: Male Lactation Kink! Read end notes for the rest.  
> >> If these aren't your thing, please turn back. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for all the lactating!Mickey prompts. I love this idea. I'm not giving this up. <3

It’s a particularly bad night for Ian.

Mickey knows it the moment he steps into their threshold. The television blares deafeningly loud from their living room but without Ian’s distinctly lively commentary about how _fake_ so-called reality-TV was showing. He discards his boots at the door, sheds his jacket onto the coat hook, then stomps into the hallway like a man on a mission. His footstep stop abruptly when he sees the curled figure of his boyfriend on their beat-up old sofa. Ian’s EMT gear was thrown haphazardly all over their small kitchen table. Ian is near-immaculate with his shit—most of the time.

“Hey,” Mickey says, walking up to the redhead. Ian stays quiet. His eyes staring blankly at the TV. Most days, he would have already assaulted Mickey breath-stealing kisses by the entryway—but not today.

Mickey turns off the TV with a sigh, still garnering no reaction from Ian.

“Oyy, Firecrotch, eyes up here.”

He tosses a leg over Ian’s thighs, then clambers on. Sweat and grime stick to his skin. It comes from a day spent under the skirts of a `62 chevy. Normally, he would be prying Ian off and complaining that he wanted a shower before they get down to it but Ian isn’t in the mood for that. No, his boyfriend needs something else from him.

Mickey shrugs off his shirt. It falls to the floor with a quiet _thump_. A bandage covers his chest. It’s loosely wrapped. It’s for precaution. Some days, he leaks. Some days, he doesn’t. He just doesn’t want to succumb to admitting that his body’s irreversibly changed for Ian’s comfort. He peels it off bit by bit. Small pieces of cotton stick to his erect nipples.

Ian still won’t look at him. Mickey stares back, careful and observant. He doesn’t know exactly what happened but it’s bad. Ian only gets like this when something from work triggers him. It’s memories mostly. Ian will talk about it later—much later, after Mickey pulls him back up from the depths he’s hiding in.

Carefully, he touches Ian’s jaw. Their lips meet softly. Nothing more than a peck. Then, he gently tugs Ian towards him—Ian’s face to his chest, Ian’s mouth to his nipple. The reaction isn’t automatic. It takes a few minutes of Mickey running his hands through Ian’s wavy hair before the latter _finally_ latches on. The first wet touch of Ian’s wet tongue causes a shiver to run up Mickey’s spine. Years into this, and yet his body reacts as if it’s that very first night.

“Yeah, that’s it.” It’s as much as praise as Mickey can manage.

Ian surges up. His body molds itself onto Mickey’s as if they were two side-by-side pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He angles his head to get more comfortable. The action tells Mickey that they may be here for a while. Ian sucks Mickey’s nipple until thin white milk lines his lips.

Mickey moans at the sensation of being fed from. He remembers back to the night when _this thing_ —the milk-happened. Ian had fucked his worries away. They discovered a whole new world of kinky sex. This, though, isn’t about sex. Sex may be part of it but only a small part. This little secret—this hidden part of Mickey that no one but them knows about—is Ian’s alone. Ian’s comfort. A manifestation of how far Mickey will go for the red-haired man.

“Hmm,” Mickey moans lowly as the pressure of his tit alleviates with every suckle. One of his hands snake down to his pants, undoes the buckle and pulls down the zipper, and fishes his semi-hard cock out. He jerks himself off in a lazy rhythm that it’s time with Ian swallowing. The other buries itself in Ian’s hair.

Ian’s hands grip Mickey by the waist for support.

Mickey shudders. He feels every ounces being pulled from his body. It’s a foreign feeling still. He secretly loves it.

Ian shifts a bit then _bites_.

“Oww, shit—the fuck, Gallagher?!” It’s instantaneous. Both hands come up to shove Ian by the shoulders. “The fuck?!”

Ian keeps a steady grip. His lips suck Mickey’s other nipple, refusing to let go. It’s a strong _no_.

Mickey can’t resist him.

“Fucking stings man,” he grouses.

Ian’s apology comes in the form of his hands travelling down the slope of Mickey’s back, slipping underneath the loose cargo pants, and holding the round globes of Mickey’s ass. A long fingers traces down the crease and touches the dry pucker.

“No.” Mickey tries to deny the pleasure his body receives. “Nah, man, ain’t about me.”

But, Ian is nothing but insistent. He wrestles the rough demin past Mickey’s hips, grunting and growling when the fabric refuses to go easy. Until, finally, he gets it half-way down Mickey’s ass. He spits like a caveman into his palm before slicking it down the fold. It really shouldn’t turn Mickey on so much but the rough no-nonsense way that Ian does it reminds him of days long past.

“Ian, _fuck_ , come on.”

Ian persists. “ _Mickey_ ,” he grunts out the name, hoarse and broken. “Please.”

Mickey groans at the first knuckle-deep finger. No lube. Bad prep. It’s been some time since they did it like this. Ian needs this. Mickey understands despite the lack of words. They’ve been at this game for nearly a decade. He’s seen Ian rise and Ian fall—manic Ian, low Ian, and everything in between Ian. There’s no such this as normal Ian like how the gaggle of Gallaghers try to describe. All of it is Ian. Whether he was jogging for sunrise selfies or tucked into bed for days. He’s still Mickey’s Ian, and that’s all that matters. This Ian is somewhere in-between. It’s not a low Ian but he’s getting there, and clinging onto Mickey for fear of sliding down further into the void. Mickey would face a thousand Terrys without ever letting go.

“I got you,” Mickey reassures. Hands run through Ian’s sweat damp hair. He tucks his chin onto the fiery locks. Ian smells like sweat and antiseptic. Mickey’s grown used to the smell of meds. It kind of reminds him of ambulances and hospitals. It took him awhile. For as long as he could scent _Ian_ underneath all of it, he’s fine. “I’ve got you. Ain’t going nowhere, Firecrotch. Fucking tied me to ya, ayt? It’s forever or some shit.”

Ian moves with slows desperation, grinding his face between Mickey’s pecs and hands urgent with the prep.

Mickey moans at the sting of the stretch. He’s gone soft with all the lube that his pampered white ass has been getting ever since they’ve moved in together. Ian’s always been so careful with lube that they go through an entire bottle when they have sex—two when they’re using toys. Mickey silently admits that he misses the demanding touches. He’s always liked it whenever Ian was a little rough, so sue him. This might not be the Southside but he’s a Southie through and through.

“Yeah, yeah,” he urges, grinding down on the tent in Ian’s pants. His fingers jerkily work over the stupid silver buckle and dark brown leather straps. Ian’s cock pops free and Mickey wraps his fingers around it. It feels hot under his palms—hot and sweaty and perfect. “Fuck yeah.” His lips unconsciously curl into his signature half-grin half-smirk, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Stop thinking.”

Ian surges up to lap at the red muscle before it fully disappears. He follows it into the warm damp cavern of Mickey’s mouth. It’s a battle of tongues because that’s how it’s always been between the two of them. It’s another breathtaking kiss that melts Mickey into a sappy pile of faggy goo. He’ll never admit to even thinking that. A hand sweeps up his quivering stomach muscles until it reaches a sensitive nipple.

“Ahh, fuck!” Mickey thrusts his cock forward involuntarily at the touch. “Ya even gots any plan on fucking me, asshole? Fuckin’ growing a beard here!”

Ian laughs. It’s a subtle thing, more of a tiny chuckle than anything. He pulls Mickey’s pants down as best he can. No time to get it fully off.

“Mickey, Mickey, Mickey,” Ian chants like a prayer.

Mickey pulls off, looks Ian in the eye to search for all the emotions he’s learned to read through the years. Being with Ian has made him learn a thing or two about this particular Gallagher. He sees the pain in those beautiful green eyes. That’s something he needs to erase.

“Get on me,” he says with little urgency. It’s like a secret, like a code. He can’t do all the flowery words of encouragement because that isn’t him. He’ll never be the guy who spews poetic shit. But, _this_ —a connection that has been forged through hellish summers and frigid winters in Chicago—is something he can give.

Ian follows without complaint.

They both work on getting Mickey into position over Ian’s cock.

Mickey slides down with a hiss. His upper teeth biting onto his lower lip. Ian traces the indentations with a finger as he stares at Mickey like the older man had the keys to the gate of heaven itself. Mickey can’t close his eyes—not when Ian’s captured it just like this. His hand strays to Ian’s face, moves away the damp bangs, thumbs the cheekbone that has sharpened over the years. He sees thirteen year old Ian Gallagher and his stupid boy bangs, and the thing in his chest flutters like he just test drove a Maceratti.

“Fuck, I love you.”

Ian’s damp of emotions break. “Mickey, I…” his breath hitches, “I—fuck!”

Mickey laces their fingers together and starts to move. “Whatever it is, Ian, shit ain’t changing between the twos of us.”

Ian curls into Mickey’s space. Their connected hands squished between their bodies. A sweat-damp forehead rests on Mickey’s clavicle. “It was… it was a fucking suicide, Mick. Lateral cuts to her wrists in a bath tub full of water. It was fucking red. And I… I froze, Mick. She—she was like Monica and I—I couldn’t save her. She—she… I was…. I couldn’t…” He’s shaking like a child by the end of it, sputtering nonsense and snot dripping all over Mickey’s skin.

Mickey takes it all in stride, disgusted but saying nothing about the non-sexy clear goo wetting his bare shoulder. He holds Ian as tight as he could without choking the guy. Even at six feet eleven inches, Ian proves to be a gentle giant with the traces of the innocence that his younger self carried.

Ian clings like he’s afraid to let go.

Mickey knows that its coming from deeply-rooted abandonment issues. He has those himself.

“Ayy, ayy,” he says, pulling Ian’s snotty face to look at him. “I’m here. I ain’t leaving ya, and I ain’t lettin’ ya leave” _again_ goes unsaid. “That shit ain’t yer fault. She ain’t Monica. Ayy, but fuck that crazy bitch. Stay with me, ayy, Firecrotch? Ian? Stay here, ya? We built this shit. Ya can’t run away from this—from us…. _Me_.  Ian, babe, we’re gonna get through this. Together, ayt? We don’ts need no priest to promise that. Thick and thin. Sickness and health like to old queen, remember?”

Ian’s face—as pathetic and ugly as it is with snot running down his nose—is still the most handsome that Mickey’s ever known.

“I love you, Mickey. I love you so fucking much.”

Mickey hates chick flick moments like this. He swallows that down. His smile is genuine when it forms. He wipes away the tears and snot with his bare hands, wiped it on Ian’s dark grey shirt.

“Don’t move.” It’s not a command _per se_ , but he’s only human. Ian’s still hard inside his ass. He starts to move with Ian hands roaming his body. He hoped that _this_ can be enough for Ian because he’s never been a guy good with words.

They talk with their bodies.

Mickey offers his to Ian freely. He arches his back to offer his leaking tits and holds onto the back of their sofa, arms on either side of Ian’s head. The pants limit his movements but he manages a few inches off before going down. In the end, he opts for grinding his balls against Ian’s in slow sinful circles with his cock slipping beneath Ian’s loose shirt to rub into red glory hairs lining Ian’s lower stomach. Their faces stay inches apart. Mickey breathes as steadily as he could.

Heat builds between their bodies.

Ian grips him by the hips, strong enough to bruise.

“You close?” He asks Mickey in a gruff tone.

“Yeah,” Mickey answers quietly. “Touch me.”

Ian dies. His hand grabs Mickey’s dick through his shirt. “Come on my skin, Mick. Mark me up. Make me yours. Put your claim until I can only smell you on my skin.”

Mickey clamps down on Ian’s shoulder and comes with a groan. He spurts under Ian’s grey shirt. Dark wet spots form on the fabric. He cant control the spasms rushing from his core. They cling to each other. Mickey feels the gush of hot cum flooding into his channel. Ian fucks him until the tremors stop.

It doesn’t come as a surprise when Ian pulls back just enough to nurse again. His mouth automatically finds Mickey’s nipple. If Mickey weren’t so spent, he’s be ready to go again. His cock twitches in effort though. Ian laps at the salty bud. He does it every night whenever they’re schedules give them the same down time. Mickey’s grown so used to it that sometimes the phantom feeling of Ian’s mouth keeps him up in nights that Ian isn’t there. It feels so long since they’ve crashed in bed together. Ian’s shifts are a pain in the ass sometimes but helping people makes him happy. Mickey won’t let anyone, even himself, take that happiness away. Still, his body is more honest than his mind. It’s shifted into rest mode, ready to boot-down for the night.

“You’re cleaning this shit up.”

Ian chuckles quietly underneath him. It vibrates through his nipples.

“Hmmm,” is all Mickey can say because he’s out for the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: mentions of suicide (off-screen, non-major character)
> 
> ***
> 
> If you have a prompt or an idea, you can [INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)~
> 
> As always, **kudos/comments/bookmarks** are all appreciated by this author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I _do_ read the bookmark tags (some are really fun).


End file.
